The step to take to get something started, that's the difficult
bit. “Step one. One. One zero one. One zero one one three.” Are you paying attention?

A flash, and he opened his eyes. Sweat and a red face, why did he
wake up? This is not a dream. He
thought. He looked to his left - the wall had a fancy portrait of a couple at
the beach. “Where's the water?” He couldn't find the bottle at his bedside as
he looked around. The bottle was on the floor. The gun lay next to it.This is a dream.

* * * * *

“Keep this.” She said. “Keep it with you, Tom, whenever the line between
dream and reality seems thin, use it.” She had a point. They are quite good
with the setups these days. No fancy
fares. No flying humans. Just normal creatures - like you and I- walking
on the road, buying food, eating food, spilling food,
throwing food around. Fighting for food. And yet, there would be certain things in
these setups. You could do what you
wanted to do here, if you played by the rules. This is a dream. He reminded himself of his first assignment as he
ported himself to the subject's
imagination while the subject slept,
it all seemed familiar, and that familiarity would hinder him a lot from doing
what he had set out to do. "They pick your first assignment very close to
what you are and how you live. It makes things difficult for you. That's how you begin
with the loss of your biggest inhibitions." Days passed. He couldn't plant. He
failed. He kept falling out of the portzone
for days until he could stay still and see the difference between the reality
and the dream. The next day his subject hanged himself. This is not a dream. Tom said to himself as he saw the news
breaking in all the major news channels. "Young billionaire businessman
commits suicide"

This is a dream.

He has planted 300 times since then. They had taught him well. “Have
a seat.” They had said when they handed him the file. “As usual, all the
details are in there. You get 48 hours.”
He wanted to finish it in 24. This is a
dream. He woke up and looked to his left. The wall had the painting. He
sighed. He saw the gun on the floor, he pulled the trigger. A flash and he woke
up. 12 hours passed. He had an inhibition
that blocked him from porting. He felt the pressure on himself the way he felt
the metal taste in his mouth. “I cannot compromise this. I must get rid of the inhibition.”

* * * * *

The subject was his son.
Everybody believed Tom had converted. But hey, when everyone you work with,
make people kill themselves, they tend to miss the finer details. Or they tend to overlook.
Sometimes both. “They won’t notice, I am quite sure. I will do this.” He checked
the time. 34 hours left.

This is a dream. He woke up and looked to his left and cried out of
frustration. The painting was still there. He reached for the gun. I shouldn't be looking. “Why do I keep
looking for the painting, damn it!” He pulled the trigger. 22 hours left.

This is a dream. He woke up, the bed felt nice and warm. He needed a drink.
He found the bar in his room and fixed himself a large one as he found the
details of the planting on a paper near him. He read through. Subject first
name: Jim. Jim? Why Jim? What did Jim do?
He looked to his left, searching for a wall. The wall was right there, the
painting again the same. Gun. Shoot. 10 hours left.

This is a dream. He was back at the bar. He saw through the papers. 'Subject
first name: Jim. Death by: ODing on drugs.' He concurred and waited for Jim to walk in. Jim
walked in. “You must kill yourself.” “What are you saying?” “The syringes are
in place.” “I shall get the syringes then-- wait, is that you, Dad?" Tom
looked to his left. Wall. Painting. Inhibition. He yelled to himself with eyes closed and tears falling, as he pulled the trigger. 5 hours
left.

This is a dream. Jim sat next to him. “Have a drink before you prepare to
die.” He told Jim. Jim nodded. He finished his drink and waited for Jim to
leave. Jim started getting up. He should stumble at the door else the planting won't be completed. Tom waited.
Jim walked towards the door. His shoe stuck a vase stand as he began stumbling
but he grabbed hold of the curtain. This
is not a dream. Jim turned his head around, looked at Tom and gave out a
wry smile. Gun. “Where's the gun-- wait why did ask for the gun--” He told himself as he looked for the wall
with the painting, this time differently, as if surprised differently. The time was up.

* * * * *

Jim sat down at the file room, millions of cameras taking v-snaps of
his vitals per protocol as he narrated his closure report.

‘Subject with first name Tom has been terminated. Death by: Self-inflicted gunshot wound. Was conditioned to drink alcohol before he began looking for his gun. Shot himself towards the end of the Range Spectrum - 25
minutes left. The planting was
successful.’